I have never been content
To busy myself with the mundane
Things of this world.

And, truth be told,
It’s fairly obvious
At this point
That I’m not likely
To start anytime soon.

I got hooked early on
On what is philosophically edifying
And excellent
And keen
And wise
And weighty
And refreshing.

Even so,
I must note
With deep regret
That this world offers
Little more than mundanity,
From which one may earn a living.

And I must protest that
It seems such the plastic living—
Overlaid upon a world of gold and silver
And precious stones.

But work,
I must.

And I don’t mind confessing
That surely, my deepest dread
Lies either in the doubt that
I could ever learn to love it,
Or in the long-nagging feeling
That something is simply
Wrong with me
That I do not.

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